Every part is my favorite, but

one of my favorite favorites is

how your favorites have become mine. How

every love of yours lies latched to my eyes like

plasma globes, how i rustle in the bushes, 

waiting for handshakes of you to reach out and say,

hello, i am here, and you 

exist in my life and my life exists in yours. 

I listened to a podcast today where a lady

talked about the facade of warmongering:

how humanity shows its shifty eye, its

real nature of love in little ways. How we

fall asleep on planes together. We 

can’t keep our guises together for too long.

Honeymoon curtains must fall and we lay our

guards down. Trusting animals in the same pack. 

In the grasp of my own cocoon

I like to think that mankind lives in a 

beehive, collecting pollen with 

child eyes to make even

the smallest, 

mouse bed in a sardine tin,

thimble-sized drip of honey. We crave sweetness, no matter

how much we say that 

the spark died out, finding it without realizing, recycling

devotion from personhood, craving touch and 

laughter and sweet sap from bone marrow, making 

your own favorites the

favorites of mine.